


something soft on your back

by atswimtwobros



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Amateur Underground Fighting, M/M, Nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23768161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atswimtwobros/pseuds/atswimtwobros
Summary: He's never played a sport where you could tap out before, hasn't gotten used to the idea yet.
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 60
Kudos: 243
Collections: Flyers Fic Exchange 2020





	something soft on your back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rose_indigo_and_tom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_indigo_and_tom/gifts).

> This story is about how nothing's really about what it's about.
> 
> Thank you as always to [jolach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolach/pseuds/jolach) for the hand-holding and Philly-picking, as well as [angularmomentum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angularmomentum/pseuds/angularmomentum), @onlyhere4therat and Bunny! Truly performed some triage on this fic in the doc to give it life. 
> 
> Thank you also to Flyers Exchange runners! This has been a wonderful low-stress distraction, and I can't wait to see what everyone's written. 
> 
> To [rose_indigo_and_tom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_indigo_and_tom/pseuds/rose_indigo_and_tom), I hope you enjoy this! The idea is based loosely around/the title is adapted from a Gabrielle Calvocoressi poem I think we had a very short conversation about once. If this did not happen and I am making it up, please completely ignore this note and enjoy the fic anyway lol. 
> 
> As a final note, there are three songs that I listened to a lot while writing this that really lent themselves to the vibe ("Life in a Northern Town" by The Dream Academy, "Bobby" by Alex G, and "Actress" by Skylar Gudasz). I put them in a tiny playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4mziivTsVk812XBAoL9Y6k?si=1Ai7GxIDT5ivlgck1JYgHw) if you'd like to listen while you read!
>
>> It's been so long since you've been made fine,  
And you love the way it feels to feel  
some softness on your back [...]
> 
> -from "Training Camp: Deer Lake, P.A." by Gabrielle Calvocoressi 

All anyone wants to talk about is the new kid Hollywood's bringing around, which is fine with Travis: it'll be nice not to be the rookie in the gym anymore. Staying late to clean mats might be good for building character but it's shit for your sleep schedule. 

"Winnipeg boy," Jake reads off of the liability form Travis is pretty sure is meant to be confidential. 

G doesn't bother to look up from the ancient desktop computer the gym uses to keep logs of the finances and practice times. "And?"

"And we got too many fucking expats already, man," grumbles Jake, letting the papers fall to the table. "People gonna think we're running some kind of smuggling operation here."

G graces him with a derisive snort. "All those head injuries made you paranoid.”

“_More _ paranoid,” Jake corrects. “And you’re probably right.” He shrugs and sweeps the papers into a manilla folder. “Besides, if we go down for anything, it’ll be tax fraud.”

Travis pauses his push-ups long enough to grimace into the collar of his shirt while he uses it to wipe his face. The fights aren't illegal, per se— they aren't sanctioned, but they aren't illegal. Whatever under-the-table betting on unsanctioned fighting does to a businesses taxes, however... but that's none of Travis' concern. G's a smart man. 

“Have you guys met him?” Travis asks, giving up on his push-ups entirely and twisting to sit cross-legged.

Sometimes G gives Travis this long-suffering look that makes little librarian glasses appear on his face in Travis’ mind’s eye. “Kevin’s bringing him by when he gets off work. That doesn’t look like body weight training to me.”

Travis flops back onto the mat. “G, I’m _ exhausted_. I cleaned this whole _ place _last night.”

“You cleaned the bathroom.”

“That’s like half the gym in square footage or whatever!”

“Because this place is fucking small,” Jake cuts in. 

G scowls. “It’s affordable.”

“Same fucking thing in Philly, man.” 

Travis is more than happy to let the two of them argue, quietly getting to his feet and sneaking back towards the little row of lockless lockers. If he can get out before they notice (and the odds are good because once they start they _ really _go for it), he probably has time to sprint to Max’s for lunch and get back in time to meet the new guy. 

* * *

Travis has barely snuck back in, last few bites of his sandwich still in hand, when someone yells, “Hey, look what Hollywood dragged in—” and he finally gets his first glimpse of the new guy.

It’s hard to square the bright grin on Kevin’s face with the human stormcloud sulking just behind him, visual whiplash. If Travis’d hoped to learn something from being here for the new guy’s first visit, he was sorely mistaken. Mostly what he learns is that his name's Nolan, Kevin picked him up as a stray at the bus station after work one night, and Kevin thinks he's great. Kevin thinks everything is great.

Once Nolan’s filled out the last of the paperwork Jake hands him, he glances at his phone and makes a soft, irritated noise before turning on his heel and walking right back out the front door. Kevin cackles at the look that puts on G’s face, says, “Yeah, that's Patty,” like that means anything to anyone, then excuses himself and follows.

Once the door’s safely shut, G rounds on Travis, who's still staring slack-jawed at the complete _ lack _of happening. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?”

“Finished my push-ups,” Travis preens. _ Ha! _

“Didn’t realize push-ups bulked your abs now. I’ll call _ Fighters Only _ and let them know.” 

Ah, well. Travis grins in what he hopes is a winning manner. “Spot me?” Luckily, it works; G rolls his eyes but motions to the stretch of mat in front of him, stepping lightly on Travis’ toes once he’s gotten himself into position. 

“Kid seemed fine,” G says after a moment, glancing down at his watch while Travis huffs and puffs away at his feet. 

“Doesn't say much,” Jake observes, leaning back in one of the plastic chairs placed around the ancient shitty television that only ever plays static. 

G grunts, squinting down at Travis. “That'll be a nice change.”

Jake tilts his water bottle like he's raising a pint. “Big fucker, too.”

“Bigger’s not always better,” G points out, and Travis pauses mid-sit-up to grin at him, eyebrows raised. 

The front legs of Jake’s chair make an awful racket when he lets them fall back to the floor. “Yeah, you'd know right?” he cackles, and G’s looking pissy about it, and Travis has one more set of sit-ups to do before he gets to the fun part and the fun part’s a lot less fun when G’s pissed.

“G’s fun-sized,” Travis defends, but that turns out to be the wrong thing to say. He's never seen G’s eyebrows do ninety degree inclines before. 

* * *

Nobody fights first thing— that's just how G does it. When Travis had asked why, way back when he first landed here, G’d thrown around words like “fundamentals.” Then Jake had cut right to the heart of it— “Everybody's fucking underinsured, man. What are we gonna do if every guy ends up in the emergency room?”

Travis still doesn't know what the correct amount of insured is, but he’d broken two fingers in a fight last year and quickly learned that wherever that line might be, Jake is correct and he is _ way _below it. 

Still, Travis wants to see Nolan’s first go in the ring. He does his best to bug G about it in a charming, winning way, but it must swerve into being annoying at some point because G literally throws in the towel he’d been folding and says, “How about you test him, huh? So you won’t fucking miss it.”

Which is not at all what Travis had been angling for; he just wanted to _ watch_. His attempts to explain that to G fall on plugged ears, met only with, “And you can do the fucking laundry, too!” Travis watches G stalk off into the Office(trademark symbol) before turning to the small mountain of ratty gym towels. What he gets for taking an interest in the common good of the gym. 

* * *

Facing a new guy for the first time, practice or payday, always gets Travis’ blood up. It's scary, goosebumps shit— maybe the guy trips over his own feet, doesn't even know how to make a fist. Maybe he's got an uppercut so clean it knocks Travis’ head clear off his body; you never know ‘til you know. Squaring off across from Nolan, Travis gets that thrill, that high: if Nolan knows how to use that big body of his, Travis doesn't stand a chance.

Somewhere in the fuzzy peripheral of Travis’ hyperfocus, G counts it off, gives the go. That crazy fucking red flag feeling, Travis’ blood pounding in his ears, tremors shaking up from the bouncing balls of his feet to the tips of his hair. 

Nolan’s rooted. Nolan has no idea what he's doing, just another huge fuck who thinks he can take Travis because he's got inches on him. Travis genuinely doesn't mean to laugh; it’s just that sometimes things are a little bit funny.

Despite all that, Nolan gets in the first hit, a wild swing catching Travis right on the cheekbone, sharp flare of awareness in the skin that splits beneath the blow. Nolan may not know what he’s doing, but he’s got power locked up in those gawky shoulders of his. Unfortunately for him, Travis has had more facial injuries y now than he could even hope to count, barely flinches as he bobs out of the way of Nolan’s next attempt and swipes his cheek against his shoulder to wipe the blood away. 

It’s a good thing Nolan’s not one of those dumbasses who insists on no pads in practice to show off— it takes no time for Travis to get right up in his space, gloved fist landing fast and heavy against Nolan’s ribs, his solar plexus when Travis darts back. Travis knows he’ll never have the height, the reach, but he’s got the footwork, the quickness, the junkyard dog spirit. 

Nolan’s shocked grunt gets buried in Travis’ shoulder when he doubles over around Travis’ glove in his stomach— real shock, like he didn’t know what kind of hurt to expect. Explains the soft give of his gut, not even tensed to stifle the blow. Travis can’t think about it, not until G calls the round, and he ducks out from under Nolan’s weight, catches an ankle around Nolan’s shin and hooks it. The ring shudders, loud when Nolan goes down on both knees, and Travis glances to G, wondering if that’s enough, if he’ll call it.

Turns out to be a mistake. Nolan might be breathing heavy already, but the grip he gets on Travis’ calf is punishing, strong enough to lay Travis out flat on his back when Nolan yanks. The exhilaration spikes Travis’ heart rate, ripping a surprised laugh right out of him. It makes his back ache, same way suddenly staring up at the fluorescents makes his head spin.

He’s ready for it when Nolan lunges for him, a beat too slow to catch Travis off guard. Rookie shit again— it’s clear that Nolan doesn’t know how to maneuver once Travis gets his extended arm in a lock, rolling his own body up and leveraging the hyperextension of Nolan’s shoulder to put his face to the mat. 

Waiting for someone to tap has never been Travis’ favorite part. He’s impatient, doesn’t like watching Nolan’s face contort when Travis hinges his arm up a little further to deepen the hold, make it that much worse to hold out. They’re both breathing so heavy, and it’s clear Nolan’s shoulder must scream a protest with each heave of his chest.

It’s a full-body wash of relief when G says, “Alright, enough.” Travis scrambles to his feet and bounds over to the ropes right away, grinning from ear to ear. The euphoria after— surviving something so stupid. That never gets old. 

“Not bad, huh?” Travis asks, wiggling his eyebrows down at G as he strips his gloves and drops them to the mat so he can flex his hands. One round’s hardly enough to make them sore, but he hates how hot the gloves get. 

“You were fine,” G says, which is about as close to glowing praise as he ever gets in a practice setting. “But you—” G turns his attention over Travis’ shoulder, pinning Nolan in place if the sudden drop-off in noise behind Travis is any indication. “We don’t take in liars. Your intake said you had experience.”

The tone of G’s voice makes Travis’ stomach drop, a bitter wash of nauseous nerves, and he’s not even the one G’s talking to. He glances over his shoulder to check on Nolan, ends up almost impressed by the blank expression he’s managing. 

“It wasn’t a lie,” Nolan says, voice tight and low. There’s a welt rising on his side, another on his cheek. Pads or no, he’ll feel them tomorrow. “It asked if I was an experienced fighter. I said yes.”

G stares him down, all eye contact and hard lines. Nolan, to his credit, glares right back. 

“Ever been in a ring, kid?” Jake this time, far more relaxed than G. “Boxing gym? Take jiu jitsu or something?”

Nolan’s jaw tics. “No.” Still looking at G when he says it.

Whatever G’s been looking for, he either finds it in that answer or decides to give up on the search. He crosses his arms over his chest but loosens his shoulders, eases up the tension in the rest of his body. “I don’t work with stupid kids,” G says, which sounds harsh even in his softened tone. “When you know you can’t win, you tap.”

For an awful second, Travis thinks Nolan’s going to leave. He wavers slightly, swaying almost imperceptibly on the spot before he nods once, a hard jerk of his chin. 

G nods back, says, “Wipe down the ring. TK’ll show you where the towels are.” He turns on his heel and heads for the backroom, Jake heaving a sigh and sparing Travis a thumbs up before following.

Everyone disperses pretty quick, Laughts and Raffl making themselves scarce with no excuse while Riemer loudly invites Coots and Bobby to lunch. It leaves Travis alone with Nolan, which shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable, but getting chewed out by G tends to have that effect. 

“He just worries about people getting hurt,” Travis says, needing to further soften the harshness of it all for himself as well as Nolan. “It’s scary, when guys get fucked up in fights they have no business being in—”

Nolan’s whole body is pulled tight, ship in a storm shit. Like Travis should hear masts creaking when Nolan slides out of the ring and grabs his shirt off the floor, tugging it over his head with jerky motions that signal an imminent fit. 

Travis replays his own words in his head and grimaces, backtracking quickly. “Not that you don’t have any business—”

“Towels?” Nolan asks, a hard bite of a question that shuts down Travis’ fumbling. 

“Yeah, of course,” Travis says, mostly to himself. He pops through the ropes and heads for the storage closet, trusting Nolan to follow. “Right over here.” 

* * *

Sun’s too bright through the thin curtains, hurts his eyes before they're even open. Lot of hurt lately: ribs, jaw, hands. But he asked for those, one way or the other; this one's all dumb chance, sleeping on the wrong side of the bed, too close to the window.

Nolan groans and rolls away from the light, scrubbing his face against the sheets and regretting it when the scrape on his cheek pulses its protest. More hurt, a stinging heartbeat right over his cheekbone. 

There's no way to lay that doesn't twinge something, set something aching. 

Nolan thinks about the bus he took into Philly, the awful stink and the way the seat was never right on his back. Legs too long, body too big. Lot of that lately, too.

“Yo, Patty, you up?” Kevin, soft as he ever manages to talk, shout-whispering through the closed door. 

It'd be easy not to answer, easy to pretend he was still asleep. Remembers running into Kevin at the bus station in the middle of the night, pure chance. No telling what he’d looked like that made Kevin ask, “You got somewhere to stay?” before he even got Nolan’s name.

“‘m up,” Nolan croaks, lurching into a sitting position as Kevin rattles the doorknob and lets himself in. He's already dressed for work, pressed and polished aside from his brightly-socked feet. “Are those dogs?” 

Kevin glances down at his socks and grins. “Boston terriers.”

“_Ugh._” He's such a stereotype; it's probably good for him to have Nolan around, keep his ego in check. 

“Yeah, yeah, you hate everything.” Kevin takes a seat on the bed, not bothering to ask before grabbing Nolan’s face, gently turning it back and forth to catch the light. He whistles, eyebrows going up as he looks over the worst of Nolan’s visible injuries— goose egg on his forehead, one eye lightly swollen. “At least tell me the other guy looks worse, man.”

Nolan doesn't have to think about it much— he can picture TK’s face, the little scrape on his cheek the only rough spot on him. Still, Nolan shrugs, says, “He always looks worse.”

That makes Kevin beam, and he finally lets go of Nolan’s face. “Awesome. Lemme clean you up and then I've gotta get to work.” Kevin bustles out and back in, medical bag in hand, gloves on— the whole nine yards, like what happens to Nolan’s face matters to anyone. 

Nolan hisses when Kevin dabs the antiseptic on his forehead; the day is setting up to be a masterclass in all kinds of small, irritating pains. All he wants is something to make it all count, but that seems far off— unless G’s willing to throw Nolan’s rookie ass to the dogs, set up a fight he’d never win just to let him feel it.

“Any plans today?” Kevin’s concentrating hard on centering the bandage, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Doesn't seem hygienic, but only one of them’s graduated from paramedic school and it sure as fuck wasn't Nolan. 

“Uhhh...” Nolan struggles to think around the frustrating pull of the adhesive on his skin. “Gym, I guess. Show my face so they don't think I'm a spoiled piece of shit.”

“Aw, they won't think that, buddy.” Kevin’s so earnest, it makes Nolan feel a little embarrassed sometimes. “Everyone likes you. They just want you to get good.”

Nolan _ hrmph_s at that, unsure what to say. He doesn't think Kevin’s lying, which is the strangest part. He considers asking when Kevin’ll get off work, but that seems personal. Not that Kevin would mind, but Nolan might, still, just for a while. 

He has to say something though, to the guy who took him in and got him a job and fixed him up. “Good luck today,” is what he lands on, such a flat and weird thing to say to someone saving lives, or whatever.

But Kevin lights up, holds his knuckles out for a bump and says, “Yeah, you, too! I'll grab us dinner, okay?”

He’d come here to get his ass kicked, to throw himself headfirst into anything rough that would have him. Instead, he's ended up the kept boy of Philadelphia’s doofiest EMT, welcomed with open arms into a seedless underworld that only wants to take care of him.

Just Nolan’s luck, if he's being honest.

* * *

Nobody likes to lose, but some guys take it real bad. They get shitty about it, nasty, and the vibe in the gym gets thrown off for however long it takes them to fix their attitude or just quit. Travis can’t begin to guess how Nolan’s taking it, so he’s a little nervous when he lets himself into the gym and finds Nolan there already. 

“Good morning,” Travis says brightly, because he can’t not say anything. He busies himself slinging his bag off his shoulder and toeing off his shoes so he doesn’t have to make eye contact, just in case Nolan’s not feeling him right now.

A tense moment passes before Nolan says, “Morning,” and holds out a loose fist for a bump.

Turns out Nolan’s remarkably easy to hang out with. He laughs at stupid things Travis expects him to ignore, and then he looks a little grumpy about it afterwards. He trains stupid hard, too hard, so Travis spends more time saying _ ease up _ than he does _ give me more_. It’s not how things usually go with people who are just starting out, certainly not how Travis’d been. 

It makes training with Nolan fun, challenging in a way Travis hadn’t even known to hope for. The morning passes unbelievably fast, and suddenly the gym’s starting to fill up: Riemer and Laughts and Bobby huffing and puffing around the mats nearby. G and Jake arguing loud as shit somewhere in the back. 

And then it’s gotta be lunchtime because Kevin comes in, two pizza boxes balanced on his forearm while he jabbers away at the phone he’s got shoved up between his shoulder and cheek. He spares a grin and a half-wave for Nolan and TK then yells, “G!” and zooms away towards the back, haphazardly dropping the pizzas on the desk. 

“Hollywood, huh?” Nolan doesn’t look too impressed, but maybe that’s just his vibe. “Guess it fits.”

Travis checks to make sure Kevin’s busy running his mouth at G before tossing Nolan a conspiratorial grin and whispering, “Wanna hear a secret?” 

It seems to catch him off guard— he misses a beat wrapping his hands, cloth sliding right off the back of his knuckles and undoing a bit of the work. He shoots it a withering glance before looking back at Travis, not bothering to fix his face any less shitty. “I guess?”

“He picked it himself.” Travis thought they were going to have to call Jake an ambulance when Kevin introduced himself that first day. “Swears it’s what people’ve called him his whole life, but he told me the truth once when he was hammered.”

Nolan’s expression doesn’t budge for a second and Travis wonders if he’s misstepped— maybe Nolan thinks ‘Hollywood’ is the coolest name in the world. Maybe Nolan thinks Kevin should ever be taken seriously. 

But then it’s like— like the clouds break, like the awful gym fluorescents dim and give way to sunlight, Nolan’s whole face splitting into a goofy grin, cheeks bulging in a way that just looks silly. “No way,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like he’s in any kind of disbelief. Travis can see him try to rein his smile in but it only half works.

“Swear on my life, dude. Don’t tell him I told you, though,” Travis adds as an afterthought. “I think it’d hurt his feelings.”

Nolan doesn’t say anything to that, just turns his attention back to his terrible wrap-job and finishes it up in a way that’s beyond laborious. After a minute or so, he gets it done to some degree, flexing his hands to check the tension. It must feel good enough because he leaves it, asks Travis, “What about you? You have a ring name?”

Every nickname is embarrassing in the cold, adrenaline-deficit light of day, but Travis still preens a little, grins when he says, “TKO, baby.”

He doesn't know Nolan well enough to predict his reaction but the silence goes on longer than is strictly comfortable, forcing Travis to check and make sure Nolan didn't just peace mid-conversation. 

He's still there, one arm slung across his chest in a lazy shoulder stretch, eyes on the floor. For whatever reason, Travis is abruptly stunned by him— his eyelashes are crazy. The flush of red across his cheeks surpassed distracting at some point and went straight to hectic.

“Baby, huh?” Nolan asks, lips curved a little at the corners, and suddenly there's eye contact and Travis wants to cast around for a witness, someone he can check in with— _are you seeing this shit? _But he can't look away, can't unstick his tongue to answer even though his mouth is already hanging open. Nolan finally spares him, dropping his gaze and grinning softly down at the floor like he can't help it. “That my name, then?”

It surges through Travis like he shoved his finger in an electrical socket, a rush of recklessness that leaves him nearly lightheaded when he says, “I'll call you whatever you want, baby.”

* * *

G refuses to type _ Baby _into the gym spreadsheet, but he loudly announces his lunch break in a way that practically screams, “But it’s fine if you want to put it in there yourself, Travis.” 

* * *

Routine’s never been kind to Nolan. It itches at him when this life that was meant to be wild and unexpected starts to slot into place— but he’s too tired and curious to change it. Kevin got him a job at a shitty little restaurant, couple days a week handing out hoagies to people mostly there for the beer. Tired. Every other night and most days: sweating himself sick at G’s hole-in-the-wall gym, trying to convince everyone and himself that it’s what he’s meant to be doing, when he doesn’t particularly believe he’s meant to do anything anymore. 

Curious: G comes up to him one afternoon after Nolan’s spent most of the morning cat-and-mousing TK around the makeshift ring. He can barely catch his breath, spent just about as much time swearing as he has laughing. Training with TK is like that.

“Footwork’s improving,” G says, not sounding one way or the other about it. Nolan doesn’t bristle. 

“Been working on it,” he says, shrugging. G knows; he’s here every day, heart and soul shit. Nolan still isn’t sure whether he actually lives in the gym or not.

G nods, chewing his tongue for a minute before saying, “Still looking to fight?”

Like a lightning bolt, a zip of right-place-right-time that Nolan sucks in on a deep breath. Says, “_Yes,” _ without a second thought, doesn’t even know when he got himself pressed right up against the ropes, one foot up likes he’s getting ready to crawl over and start swinging. Yesterday, one guy tipped a single dollar. Somebody else left without paying and Nolan heard about it all fucking night. Anything else, that’s all he wants.

G doesn’t look surprised by whatever he sees on Nolan’s face; instead, he smiles a little, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Two weeks. New kids on the block showcase.”

Nolan can barely hear over the rush in his ears but he sketches a jerky nod, hands flexing on the top rope. 

“You,” G says, looking behind Nolan. TK: Nolan’d forgotten. “Don’t let him embarrass me.”

TK bounces up beside Nolan, tossing himself on the ropes with abandon that would doubtless send Nolan sprawling on the floor if he tried it. “Heard,” TK says, serious and happy all at once when he tosses a little grin in Nolan’s direction. Nolan doesn’t get how he does that. 

* * *

Nolan’s gotten his ass handed to him a couple or so times in his life, pushed speed drills and weight training until he was beyond nauseous, dry-heaving in locker rooms and in the grass beside high school running tracks. 

Could easily be recency bias, but he's pretty sure he's never felt as physically beaten down as he does after week one of training at G’s.

“Sore?” 

It's like TK has a sixth sense for when Nolan feels the absolute lowest shit. Sometimes Nolan imagines him living in the gym walls like a rat, scurrying out any time he sniffs out a moment of weakness. 

“All over,” Nolan answers anyway, wincing through a calf stretch that should be nothing. 

TK makes this sympathetic noise and Nolan braces himself for the same talks he's gotten from everyone. _ Ease off, slow up. Takes time. _ He's gritting his teeth for it, pressing the stretch even further until it feels like the muscle might just pull away from the bone, strip his shin and leave him mangled.

Instead of any of the useless platitudes, TK just says, “Yeah, shit sucks. Come here, I'll show you something.”

Which is so unexpected that Nolan does it, falling gracelessly out of his calf stretch and stumbling along after TK, frowning as they head down the little hallway and then straight out the backdoors into the dank alley behind the gym. 

“Breathtaking,” Nolan grumbles before he can stop himself, taking in the garbage smell and general dampness. 

Wonder upon wonders, it makes TK laugh, and it feels unexpectedly good. Everything Nolan’s bumped against all day has hit sharp-edged and shitty, but TK laughing at his stupid joke lands balmy, Bactine on fresh ink.

“Simmer showed me this trick before he peaced for the big leagues,” TK’s saying when Nolan manages to tune back in. He ducks back into the gym, dragging a big empty waste bin behind him when he comes back out. Nolan has officially zero idea where this is heading. 

“Simmer— he the one in the picture with G and Voracek in the office?” Nolan’d wondered about it. The gym wasn't particularly decorative, but the picture was in a nice frame, hung with a lot of care right over G’s ancient desktop. 

TK snorts, but he's grinning as he bops back into the gym and then comes back out with two big bags of ice, ostensibly from the freezer chest by the back doors— another thing Nolan had wondered about and never bothered to ask. “Motherfucker signed it, did you see that? A real famous dude signature, fancy gold Sharpie and everything.” 

If it were just the words, Nolan’d think TK didn't like the guy, but his voice gives him away, all warm and proud. The kind of thing that could easily get Nolan in his own head wondering if anyone's ever talked about him that way, but any unwise introspection gets interrupted by TK loudly shaking all the ice into the garbage bin. 

“Can you grab me two more bags?” TK asks, already kneeling by a spigot on the back wall of the gym that Nolan hadn't bothered to notice. By the time Nolan finds the ice chest and comes back out, TK has a hose in the bin and water already pouring in. 

“Awesome, dump those for me.” 

_ Bossy _ wasn't one of the words Nolan would've selected for TK, but maybe he's just a terrible judge of character. It's more like _ pushy _ anyway. 

The ice clued Nolan in, and before long they're looking at a trash bin-turned-ice bath. Nolan’s impressed with the ingenuity in spite of himself.

“How do you even get in there?” he asks, partially to be an asshole but also because he can't really picture how TK could scale the side of the trashcan without spilling the whole thing onto the concrete. 

He's not ready for the way TK grins at him, a crooked tilt of his lips and a flash of teeth, chipped front tooth gleaming in the alley sun. “It's all skill, baby,” and he rips his shirt over his head, hoists himself up and over the lip of the trashcan and sloshes a bunch of water over the edge when he lets his weight drop. 

Nolan gets caught on the visual of TK’s shoulders, tanned skin and tight-bunched muscle holding his body balanced for that split second. He has to blink it away, circle closer to the trashcan so there's less room in his field of vision for imaginary TK’s, all full up on the real thing shivering in the ice and sun. 

He has to skip back a step when TK flicks cold water at him, scowling just because it makes TK grin a little broader. “Is watching you freeze supposed to make me feel better?” he asks, working to sound unimpressed. It's usually not such a chore, but he's sort of... having fun, maybe. That's what that feeling is. 

TK groans at him, rolling his eyes and throwing his arms dramatically over the side, sending another wash of water onto the pavement. “There's _ room _,” TK says, and it's so stupid that it takes Nolan a minute to parse it. 

He doesn't quite sputter but he comes fucking close, hands going right to his hips likes he's Kevin watching someone do dangerous shit on _ American Ninja Warrior. "__Where? _” he demands, kicking at the bottom of the bin so the rubber vibrates with a thud. 

“Here,” TK says, like Nolan’s the one being an idiot. He does an aborted backstroke, pressing his shoulder blades right up against the far edge of the trashcan. He slaps at the water between them, wagging his eyebrows. “Right here!”

It's so... fucking stupid. It's _ so _ fucking stupid. Nolan can't fix his face, can't stop smiling as he bitches and grumbles and shakily climbs into the trash bin. More water on the ground than in the bin. Ice melted down from the heat of two bodies but it's still cold, Nolan’s skin going tight against the chill. 

“Happy?” he asks, scowling down at TK. It's tight quarters, no way to stand that he's not halfway on TK’s feet or pressed up against his thighs. They can't duck down into the water without getting even closer, so the edge of the trash can barely reaches the bottom of Nolan’s ribcage, everything else left dry and open to the air. 

TK doesn't look even half-repentant, clearly delighted that Nolan’s decided to humor him. “Dude, I'm _ so _happy.” He sinks into the water a little, letting his feet slide out from under him so he's all up in Nolan’s space. 

Nolan hesitates for just a second, watching the wet ends of TK’s hair float on the surface, the challenging squint of his eyes. 

He takes the shock, collapsing down into the ice-cold water and sloshing it out in a cascade, letting his knees spread around TK’s hips, resting his ass on TK’s thighs, splaying his toes out against the wall of the trash can to help balance their weight. He grabs the lip on either side of TK’s head, raising his chin just a little, throwing back the challenge triple-fold. 

He's never played a sport where you could tap out before, hasn't gotten used to the idea yet. 

* * *

Time moves faster with something on the horizon. Even the restaurant becomes nearly bearable— some asshole spits a bite of his sandwich at Nolan’s feet because the kitchen forgot the mustard, and all Nolan thinks about is the armbar TK’d shown him the day before. How quick you have to move on the ground, where the legs go, where the pressure hits. 

Kevin patches him up when he gets a little busted, leaves ibuprofen on Nolan’s nightstand and buys him a mug with a big curly N on it. It all lands weird in Nolan’s chest: nothing’s what he was looking for; there’s nothing he wants to throw out.

Like— TK.

Few days before the fight, they finish up their body-weight exercises and vacuum down the leftovers Nolan brought in from work, hang out in the alley while they digest—

“So you don’t get a cramp,” TK explains. 

“Pretty sure that’s for swimming.” Nolan’s only half paying attention, too busy feeling pleasantly sleepy and slow in the noon sun. The concrete beneath them’s warm but not hot. Idyllic shit, massive back alley garbage bins aside. 

TK snatches the water bottle Nolan’d been fiddling with, sticking his tongue out when Nolan makes a lazy noise of dissent. “You can get cramps on land, bud.”

_ But they’re not dangerous, _ Nolan argues internally. _ You won’t drown. _ But he can hear TK’s rebuttal already, _ Still hurts, _and it makes him smile; he has to bury it quick against his shoulder. 

“Come on,” he says, lurching to his feet and holding a hand out to pull TK up, “time’s wasting.”

Sparring with TK always hits Nolan’s brain like a horse tranquilizer. On the nights he can't sleep, ears all full up of city and head beehive buzzing, he’s learned to lull himself into a near-restful trance shadowboxing TK in the dark. _ Move your feet. Hands up. Come on, ease up, baby. Come on, try harder. _

Wonders sometimes if Kevin can hear the mattress creaking when he throws half-jabs up at the ceiling, picturing TK’s toothy little grin, the way his face gets all intense when Nolan does well and he actually has to try. 

“You always do it wrong.”

Nolan freezes, so caught up in his head that he’d lost track of the moment. He looks up to find TK watching him from a few feet away, eyes on Nolan’s hands, the cotton wrap he's tightening around his palm. It comes out defensive when he asks, “What?” Can't help the way his body goes stiff, irritated, even though it makes his sore muscles groan in protest. 

TK’s hands go up, placating, doesn't even have to say it for Nolan to hear the _ easy, easy. _ “Come here.” He settles against the ring, back to the ropes and just barely perched on the canvas. His face goes all kind and warm; when he waves Nolan over, he might as well’ve put a hook in him for all the chance Nolan has of staying away. 

He still feels a little shitty, leftover adrenaline— _you always_ _do it wrong—_ so he doesn't bother to fix his face or loosen his shoulders as he looms over TK, waiting for an explanation. 

“Here,” TK says, reaching out and grabbing Nolan’s left hand, the one with the unfinished wrap-job. TK’s hands are warm and he makes quick work of undoing everything Nolan’d accomplished. “You'll be done in a few months wrapping your hands like that.” 

_ Like what_, Nolan could ask, but the feel of TK’s rough palm swooping over his skin, against the grain of the little hairs on this back of his wrist, sticks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. It takes Nolan a beat to realize what TK’s doing, trying to rub the circulation back into Nolan’s hand where the unfinished wrap left indents, cool spots. 

“Too tight,” TK explains, thumbing over one of the angry raised lines edging the wrap marks. “Too loose and you'll bust something, too tight and your fingers’ll drop off.” He uses the same thumb to pin one end of the cotton, sets to work gently twisting and turning Nolan’s hand at the wrist to rewrap it. 

It feels good, snug. Nolan flexes his fingers once TK’s done, surprised that something so painless can be so supportive. “Huh,” he says, because he can't think of anything else to say. 

TK’s doe-eyeing him, all soft, and Nolan braces himself against the urge to do any truly unhinged thing that flits through his head. Instead, he shoves his other hand out for TK to unwrap, focusing on the blood surging back into his cold fingers as the pressure lessens, the tingling in his fingertips. 

He doesn't mean to commit the whole thing to memory, the unbelievable tenderness in how TK threads the cotton between Nolan’s fingers, across the hollow of his palm, circling the base of his thumb. How he grins up at Nolan after, still holding his hand, and says, “See? Easy, baby.”

* * *

Travis has never liked fights organized South of South, everyone pacing the ring with the wrong kind of hunger. The amount of money changing hands on the big bouts is enough to turn anyone mean, reckless. 

His only consolation for Nolan’s first fight happening down here is that it's not the kind of meet that'll draw a huge crowd, big money. Couple hundred dollars floating around at most, no one taking chances on raw kids testing out their wingspans. 

G’d never purposefully sign Nolan up for a shark tank, but that's one of the bigger dangers of what they do— never know what you're walking into until you're neck deep in it. Which is why Travis’ stomach drops when Nolan’s opponent ducks into the ring, taking the far corner.

Travis has seen the guy around. Travis has seen the guy _ fight. _He's not great, but he's got months of training on Nolan, maybe a year, if Travis’ memory is correct. When Travis frantically searches the crowd for G, his suspicions are confirmed when he finds him with his finger already in some guy's chest, visible steam puffing out of G’s ears as he gives it to who Travis can only assume is the fixer. 

Kevin’s jiggling his leg so hard his folding chair is vibrating against the floor, clattering noise nearly lost beneath the mumbling roar of pre-match conversation. “Something's up,” he says, terse and nervous. 

Travis nods, mumbles, “Yeah, it's no good.”

They watch as G stalks away from the fixer and up to the makeshift ring, starts talking to Nolan with harsh gestures towards the other corner, face serious and pissed. So mad he’s probably spitting. 

Travis thinks about twenty minutes ago, standing outside with Nolan and wrapping his hands slow and sure, rubbing out the tension where he could find it. 

_ Nervous? _

Little shrug. _ I don't know. _

In the present, Nolan shrugs again, glancing across at the other guy and sizing him up. He turns back to G, shrugs again. Says something Travis can’t read from this far away. Stays in the ring. Travis’ heart rate spikes. He can see the sweat prickling on Nolan’s back from here, feels his own body mirror it. 

G grabs Nolan’s gloved hand, squeezing his fingers hard to get his attention. Waits until Nolan's looking him dead in the eye before he says, _ Tap, _so clear it cuts through the noise.

That sinking feeling again. 

It goes fast. Three rounds, two minutes each, just like they'd practiced. 

Nolan moves his feet, keeps his hands up. Swings when he's got the punches lined up, never fully connects. Takes a few solid hits to the face, the ribs— Travis flinches when Nolan’s lip splits, pained grunt loud over the low thudding music, the distracted conversations, the buzz of the TV’s behind the bar.

Kevin’s the loudest thing in the room, vying with Travis for most annoying spectator and _ just _eking out a victory. They both groan when the second round starts and the asshole catches Nolan with a flurry of heavy shots to the stomach— non-zero odds he’ll piss blood later. Travis hates that shit.

Testament to how much he's learned, how hard he’s worked— Travis tracks the deep breath Nolan takes, the way his abs clench against the impact, how he lets it happen until the guy starts to slow down, tires himself out. Travis screams his throat raw when Nolan pulls out a standing hold, grabbing the guy’s arm and twisting it over his own shoulder, leveraging the weight so sure and awful it sends a sympathy shot right through Travis’ nerves. Nolan’s gotten him just like that before, a sneaky drag when you underestimate him, a brutal twist to the joint. 

_ Yes_, Travis thinks, all savage delight, unblinking gaze stuck on Nolan’s face— all focus, red high in his cheeks and mouth drawn tight. Travis’ll never get used to his eyes, the unsettling way he can zone in on things, just rest there until it seems like the floor should get up and apologize for getting in his way.

Kevin’s got a grip on Travis’ knee that’s threatening to crush the bone, shaking his leg excitedly, pushing at him, screaming— but the round times out before the guy has to submit, saved by the literal bell just as the firm set of his face starts to turn hopeless; Travis yells more. Fuck that guy, fuck his fixer. Fuck his purple shorts.

The third round is an exercise in pure frustration. Nolan’s pouring sweat, skin slick and shining under the makeshift lighting rigs. He stalks around the ring, circling, careful, slinking in. He's got an inch or so on the other guy; he could get in a swing at the sweet spot on that asshole’s jaw, send him crumpling to the mat, end it. Win it. 

But he hesitates last second, every time, tiring himself out with each world-wrecker punch he draws back. He’ll throw out his own shoulder at this rate, turning all his match-enders into irritating jabs. The crowd’s _ loud _for a rookie match, bloody-minded watching Nolan’s deceptively calm stance and wasted powerhouse punches. He's in his head, Travis realizes, catching the faraway look even as Nolan shifts his body weight, weaving out of an attempted grapple with relative ease. 

_ Fuck_, Travis thinks, watching in horrified slow motion as the guy manages to get behind Nolan after a particularly reckless swing, hooks an ankle around his shin. Downs him, hard, so far up in Nolan’s space that he can't get an arm up to break his fall. _ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _Nolan’s face twists up, teeth gritting against the weight placed on his shoulder, the arms locking tight around his neck.

Nolan’s good, he’ll be _ very _good someday, but once the other guy gets him on the ground in the dying moments of the final round, it's over. There's only so much strength and talent can do when you're up against someone who's been doing it long enough to intuit the movements, who’s practiced holds so often that they come second nature. 

Fucking guillotine, elbow pressed to Nolan’s neck right over the artery, right where it hurts most. Where it's most dangerous. All Travis can think about while he watches Nolan struggle against the hold is how they've never even practiced it, how to get out of it. Shouldn't have needed it for a true rookie showcase.

Nolan's face goes redder, teeth bared even as his movements slow, weaken, and Travis hears G scream _ Tap! _through the fuzz in his ears. His attention bounces frantically between Nolan’s crumpled, fucked up face and his hand on the mat— holding his breath like Nolan must be, lungs rioting—

Two fingers, the smallest _ tap, tap _ against the canvas. When the guillotine breaks, letting Nolan roll over onto his hands and knees to choke in a few unsteady breaths, Travis blows out a sigh of relief so heavy it makes his chest hurt. _ Fuck. _

If it’d gone to decision, the points wouldn't be nearly as one-sided as they should in favor of a fucking cheater. It'll probably be a cold comfort for Nolan, slipping carefully out of the ring and favoring his right shoulder— he’d gone down like a sack of bricks— but Travis holds onto it for later, when the sting’s not so fresh. 

He's up out of his chair before the winning announcement’s even done, trailing Nolan out of the main room to where his gym bag was tossed carelessly in one of the back hallways. Nothing worth taking. 

“Hey,” Travis starts, nearly adds _ baby, _ aiming for a laugh until he gets close enough to get a look at the swelling above Nolan’s eye, the blood leaking from his mouth. Travis has seen worse, gotten worse, but it still gets his hackles up. “Fuck that guy.” 

Nolan snorts then appears to regret it, wincing and touching gentle fingers to the swollen bridge of his own nose. “You say that every time I lose and there'll be a lot of guys to fuck.” 

“It wasn't a fair fight,” Travis argues, grabbing one of Nolan’s gloves and stripping it off, setting to work on the cotton wrap underneath. He needs to do _ something _with his hands before he bounces right out of his skin. 

“Yeah, G told me.” Nolan sounds rough, tired. Still hasn't fully caught his breath. “That's just how stuff is sometimes.”

“Unfair?” Travis tosses the second glove into Nolan’s open bag, starts on the wraps. Methodical. 

Nolan nods, shrugs. Only looks mildly concerned when Travis grabs a towel from his bag and starts dabbing at the sweat on his chest, shoulders. Easy around the shoulder joint, just enough to keep the chill away. “Shitty,” Nolan clarifies, mumbled around the way he's holding his jaw crooked to ease the pull on his lip.

The worst part is that Travis can't tell if Nolan’s angry. _ Travis _ is angry for him but Nolan mostly sounds exhausted. Travis has a feeling things are going wrong behind the scenes, off the tracks and screeching towards something bad— Nolan’s hard to reach sometimes, or he was when he first started training at the gym; Travis has seen guys spiral from way less than barely losing a fixed fight. He viciously hopes G fucked that guy’s manager _ up. _

Kevin, seething, has to head in for a night shift, and someone's got to fix Nolan up. Shitty downtown bars-turned-rings will never be the best place to have these conversations.

Travis hands Nolan a shirt, waves away the complaints when he holds out sweatpants and insists on helping Nolan step into them. He's been where Nolan is before, shit beaten out of you, all the feeling just starting to roar back in after the adrenaline edges off. When it hits, it hits hard. Nolan’ll be thankful later. 

* * *

Travis has been to Kevin’s a few times, but not since Nolan moved in. He wonders if it's weird that the apartment doesn't look any different; if he didn't watch Nolan pull out a key and let them in, he’d have had a hard time believing anyone besides Kevin lived here.

It's not the first time Travis has wondered if Nolan even tries in the ring— when it's not just training, when he's not just beating himself up.

“Don't take this bad,” Travis says, dabbing a wet towel at the split in Nolan’s lip, the watery trail of blood down his chin, “but had you ever fought _ anyone _before you got here? Like, in your whole life?”

Nolan’s head jerks away from the light contact, hissing through his teeth when Travis chases him back down, gets a hand firmly on the base of his skull to hold him still. It's such a warm place, the tender spot under his curtain of tangled hair; everything about touching him like this makes Travis’ stomach flip with something like nerves. 

“I played hockey,” Nolan says, face all pain-knit and rough. 

Not what Travis expected, but he raises his eyebrows, interested. “No shit, me, too. Like, bantam or—”

Nolan finally lets Travis get the washcloth pressed right up against his lip so he feels it when Nolan barely says, “WHL.”

_ Shit, _ Travis could say, because that's closing in on big boy stuff. And the way Nolan says it, the tight set of his jaw and the way he's trying to bore through the far wall with his eyes— Travis’ heart sinks for him, for however he ended up here.

“I played as a kid,” Travis says instead, taking the cloth away from Nolan’s lip and searching out a clean swatch of it to press against the scrape above his right eye. The blood there’s just a thick ooze, settled nearly to drying and matted in his eyebrow. 

Nolan doesn't answer but he does grace Travis with a look, piercing him with the eye that's not obscured by the secondhand towelette courtesy of Travis’ grandma. 

“Didn't make it far,” Travis admits, unsure if this is the kind of commiseration that will make Nolan feel better or worse. “Dad lost his job, couldn't afford the league or the gear after that.” 

He's not ready for Nolan’s hand to close around his wrist, using the grip to pull the towel away from his face so he can look up at Travis head on. It's unbelievable: what he looks like. Travis doesn't think he'll ever get used to it, no matter how many late nights and early mornings they spend tossing each other around the beat-up old gym mats. 

“You think I'll ever win one?” Nolan asks. His fingers are so warm against Travis’ skin, fingertips and spine of his palm whirled rough with calluses. 

“I think...” Pretty hard to think, actually. Travis pictures the way Nolan moves on the mat, the power locked behind the nervous, robotic way he shifts his shoulders. How he holds back, last-second pulling punches that would floor just about anyone. “If you wanted to. If you let yourself.”

Knife’s edge— whether Nolan will ask what Travis means, if he’ll pretend not to know. He drops his hold on Travis’ wrist, looking away and scrubbing at the back of his neck. 

“Yeah,” Nolan says finally, tongue pressing at the tender split in his lip and sending a fresh trickle of blood down his chin. “Probably right.”

* * *

The first time Nolan saw Broad Street, he’d asked one thing of it. Piss o’clock, that thin pre-dawn light washing everything watery and cheap. He’d stared up at the sick-beautiful gash of City Hall against the skyline and thought so hard it turned to prayer: _ chew me up and spit me out. _

He tells himself he's tired, busy. Still nursing the hitch in his jaw, head more bad days than good. Slinks around Kevin’s apartment like a shitty shadow until the curly N mug on the kitchen counter and the way the ibuprofen never stops showing up on his bedside table make something click, leave him feeling mostly sad. 

He’d never expected sadness to feel like a breakthrough; it's a fucking trip. It's not the fight he's sad about, not Philly. Not even the restaurant, nothing about the little life he’s built up here. 

It's all older than that, and it hurts more to think about because it's been there longer. _ Festering_, he thinks, because it's a disgusting word and sometimes he feels disgusting. 

He hears the door to Kevin’s room creak open and closes his eyes, steeling himself. Rolls out of bed and heads out to the kitchen. 

Kevin looks more happy than surprised when he sees Nolan, which spreads through like medicine. He doesn't poke and prod when Nolan takes a seat at the little dining room table, just starts making dinner, launching into a _ Here's what you missed _montage of ambulance shenanigans. 

Crazy how good it feels. Good enough that Nolan wakes up the next day, grabs his bag, and walks to the gym. 

G’s working with Coots, caught up in snipping back and forth, so they don't look up right away when Nolan comes in. That's probably for the best; he has to fix his face into something worth talking to. 

“Heeey.” Jakub, sack of clean laundry over his shoulder. “The Baby’s back.” He laughs a little, then gives Nolan a bright, fierce grin that nearly knocks him back. “You don't look half bad for getting your stuffing knocked out.” 

Nolan smiles back, starkly aware at the way the scab on his lip pulls it gruesome. “Had some help putting it all back in.” When he looks back to G, G’s got that careful expression on his face, guarded, weighing. 

“You back?” he asks, frank.

Nolan doesn't hesitate, doesn't waver. Nods once, short and sure. “Yeah.” 

A smirk drags one corner of G’s mouth up, revealing a missing tooth Nolan’d never noticed. “Good,” he says, before turning back to Coots and starting back in like he never stopped. “You, on the other hand, left hook of an _ actual _baby—”

“And when did I ask for your opinion?” Coots spits back, rolling out his shoulders and rolling his eyes all at once, sparing Nolan a toothless grin before falling back into a neutral stance, fists up towards G. 

It went better than Nolan would've let himself hope, if he'd let himself think about it at all before he left the apartment this morning, but also—

“Is TK here?”

Jakub wiggles eyebrows at him over the towel he's haphazardly tossing around into a semblance of folded. “At work. Let him know you stopped by though.” That's about as much as Nolan can ask. “Now why don't you get some reps in before Bobby gets here; you're his ring doll today.”

* * *

Nolan bought a pack of cigarettes before he left Winnipeg. Never smoked one before, but it'd seemed like something the kind of person he came to Philly to become would do. Now that he's here, that feels, like so many other decisions, supremely stupid. 

He still has the pack, keeps it in his back pocket while he works. Pretends to take smoke breaks when it's slow. There are exactly three cigarettes missing, each bummed by a different member of the constantly rotating cast of line cooks.

It’s been a blessedly easy night, a chilly Tuesday where no one wants to venture out to a bar under the El tracks when they could instead curl up against the weather at home. Nolan parks his ass on the stack of wood pallets behind the restaurant, tells the bartender to call him back in if anyone shows up. 

He’s fucking around with the pack, tipping the cigarettes out into his palm and shuffling them back into the box, when a wonderfully familiar voice asks, "Need a light?"

Nolan's smiling before he means to, down at his own hands like an idiot. He pulls a single cigarette out and drops the pack beside his hip, twirls it through his fingers the way he practiced when he was younger— couldn't risk the health problems, but he'd always loved the look.

"Didn't know you smoked," Nolan says, glancing at TK side-eyed, just to get a look at him. Little at a time to start, ease himself back into it. 

TK's wearing a camo jacket about two sizes too big, and he looks incredibly comfortable as both a person and a concept. "Nah, just never go anywhere without a lighter. Habit, you know?"

_ No _, Nolan thinks, unable to come up with a single useful daily habit like that he's ever cultivated. But he doesn't want to get into that kind of thing, not tonight. "I've never smoked," he admits, flipping the cigarette back and forth through his fingers a few more times, gratified by the way it catches TK’s eye, visibly sparks bright interest. "Just thought it looked cool."

"It does," TK assures him, finally coming over and standing right in front of Nolan, tracking the movements of Nolan's fingers while the tip of his tongue pokes out between his crooked teeth. "Good party trick."

Nolan considers tapping the spaces beside him, inviting TK to sit. He’s not used to having to crane his neck up to look at TK, but he likes how much of the world TK blocks out in his puffy jacket, standing over Nolan and looking pretty happy to be there. Nolan tucks the cigarette away behind his ear, going still when TK reaches out a hand— at first, Nolan thinks he's going to grab the cigarette, give Nolan’s little trick a try; instead, he lightly rests his thumb on the corner of Nolan’s lip, right where the split's still scabbed over. Nolan closes his eyes against it, unable to tamp down the soft noise that spills out of him. It’s so damn soft. It’s always so damn soft, with TK. 

"G said you came by the gym today," TK says, sounding a little unsteady. Nothing compared to the way Nolan's reeling under the light touch. "Asked about me."

"I did,'' Nolan agrees, hyperaware of the whorls of TK’s thumbprint pressed against the tender throbbing skin of his lip. He can taste it, actually, metal-salt blood and skin. "Thought I’d let you know—" he turns his face into TK’s hand, full of his lips pressed against the mound of his thumb, the thin skin of the web. He finally opens his eyes to get a good look at TK when he says, "I’m done throwing a tantrum."

TK laughs, barely a surprised breath; he can't seem to settle between meeting Nolan's eyes and staring down at his mouth. 

Sixth sense: Nolan _ knows _ TK’s going to say something awful when he opens his mouth, something terrible and sincere like _ I’m glad. _Nolan doesn't give him the chance, grabbing TK’s coat and yanking until he's bent to Nolan’s level, hands dropping to Nolan's thighs to steady himself. 

All that eye contact, TK’s breath steady and warm against his face. Nolan sucks it up and closes the distance, tugging at TK’s jacket again to pull him closer, straining his neck until their mouths slot right. He means it as a question but he loses track of it, ends up halfway to standing, one hand buried in the overhot hair at the nape of TK’s neck just to hold onto something, to ground them—

"Shit, _ ow_," Nolan hisses, breaking away and tonguing at his newly throbbing lip. Possible he jumped into action too soon, should still be benched. 

TK’s hands are toasty when he gets them on Nolan’s jaw, and Nolan can barely stand to look at him, the way he's looking back. The second before it happens, Nolan recognizes the glint in TK’s eye, feels his grin split wide when he says, “Ease up, baby," and kisses Nolan so gently he can't even tear himself away to complain about it.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! If you have any questions or complaints, I am on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/atswimtwobros) and [Tumblr](https://atswimtwobros.tumblr.com).


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